Page 35 of Carousel

“Dezeeves,” she says calmly. “About just now⁠—”

“You testing the limits of Lartosi ships, the competence of their shipwrights, and perhaps even the laws of physics themselves – in a craft worth the Provision of fifty villages?”

“Just a bit of fun,” she says, shrugging her slight shoulders. “No harm done.”

“As I said, superb timing.”

Dezeeves takes a step forward, waving a hand in my general direction.

“This is Ara, our newest prisoner.”

Riss looks openly disgusted.

“Oh. Right,” she murmurs, as though not quite sure what this has to do with her.

“She will work in Intelligence with you,” Dezeeves continues, elongating every word. “You will be her keeper. I’ll expect you to manage her Integration plan.”

Her whole face changes. Her jaw might come apart from her face any second now. “But, Dezeeves⁠—”

Cosmer stifles a laugh with his hand – and Dezeeves turns on him.

“And you, Cosmer, will be Drake’s.”

“What?” he yells.

Dezeeves smiles a crinkled smile.

“A good match, don’t we all think? Now, I believe that is my work here complete. If you’ll excuse me, I need to get to The Bridge. Report to me in the morning for your full plans.”

He sweeps along the corridor, his long leather coat catching the air behind him.

After seemingly shaking herself, Riss sprints after him, calling his name.

Cosmer just stares after them with an expression that makes him look young somehow. Like he’s a boy who has just been told playtime is over.

But Drake’s features remain unrevealing. He stands with his perfect posture, a certain aura around him. As if he isn’t a prisoner at all, but a crew member, like everyone else – or maybe even, their senior.

He says, rather boredly, “I assume prisoners of war can still eat. Is it Deck 5 for the Mess Hall?”

It is, indeed, Deck 5 for the Mess Hall, which turns out to be a cavernous, panelled room with large portholes running along one wall. Stars are visible in the night sky beyond them. A simple standing clock tells me it’s almost twenty-three past the hour.

Cosmer points to one of the long shabby wooden tables that run the length of the room.

“Sit. Stay.”

“We are not dogs,” Drake retorts.

“In here, as far as anyone will be concerned, you are. And since I now have to keep you both alive – just do what I say. Okay? I’ll try and see if any of the cooks are still around.”

While he heads off towards a hatch in the wall, Drake and I seat ourselves at the wooden bench nearest.

We’re not the only people in here. A large group of older, bearded men are gathered around another table. Some are laughing uncontrollably. Others are ogling Drake and I in a way I don’t like.

“Just ignore them,” Drake mutters.

I state the obvious. “They hate us.”

“We are enemies in their territory. They would.”